


By Any Other Name

by Ginipig



Series: Love By Any Other Name [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cullistair, Fluff, Hawke stays in the Fade, Just gooey romance, M/M, No Smut, No thoughts of sex even, References to PTSD/Addiction, Romance, Romantic Gestures, Same-sex relationships, Warden Ultimate Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 02:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17295548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: When Alistair, an old (old) friend — more of an acquaintance, really — arrives at Skyhold to ask for the Inquisition's aid, Cullen expects to get along with him just as well as he did when they were boys. Which is to say, not at all. He doesn’t expect to discover that he and Alistair actually have quite a bit in common now. Nor does he expect to enjoy Alistair’s company as much as he does. And he certainly never expected their relationship to develop into a genuine friendship. As the Inquisition prepares for a fight against Corypheus's allies, Cullen struggles to understand the meaning of his relationship with Alistair. And when the truly unexpected happens, he must decide what he wants it to be.





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Discussion of grief; mentions of PTSD and addiction; canon major character deaths (Warden with archdemon, Hawke in Fade)  
> It really is quite fluffy, though.
> 
>  
> 
> What's in a name? that which we call a rose  
> By any other name would smell as sweet.  
> — _Romeo and Juliet_ , Act II, scene 1

 

“I think that covers it,” the Inquisitor finished. “Did I miss anything, Warden?”

“So formal,” said Alistair, waving a hand at the _Inquisitor_ while standing around the _war table_. Cullen couldn’t believe his disrespect — actually, he absolutely believed it, he just wished he couldn’t. “Please, call me Alistair. And no, you summed up the awful situation quite nicely.”

The Inquisitor nodded. “In that case,” she said to the advisers, “I’ll be leaving for the Western Approach with Alistair, Hawke, and a team the day after tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Leliana. “If the Wardens are indeed working with Corypheus, we must know as soon as possible.”

“Anything else?” the Inquisitor asked. She looked to Josephine and Cullen.

“I have prepared quarters for both of you,” Josephine said. “I can lead you, if you’d like.”

“Varric said you have your own pub here,” Hawke said, her familiar grin causing Cullen’s teeth to grind on reflex. “So I’m headed that way. I’m sure he can show me around.”

“I got it from here, Ruffles,” Varric said, opening the door through which he had clearly been eavesdropping.

Cullen threw up his arms in annoyance that no one else seemed to share. “Why do we even bother closing the door?”

Varric smiled. “Good question, Curly. See you all tomorrow. Hawke and I plan to swap stories and get very drunk tonight.”

Hawke _tsk_ ed and shook her head in mock-disappointment. “Still so uptight, Knight-Captain.”

“That’s not my title anymore!” Cullen called after her and Varric as they left laughing. Hawke knew that, of course, but she still delighted in making him as uncomfortable as possible. Whether she believed she was merely annoying him or understood the true depth such a reference to his past cut him was unclear. He liked to think she was better than the latter, but experience made him doubt any assumptions of growth or maturity on her part.

Alistair, as was his wont, grinned at Cullen’s exasperation, but before he could say anything, Varric called from the hall, “See you later, Prince Charming!”

Alistair groaned.

“Prince Charming?” Leliana asked.

“Because I’m a prince,” Alistair said with no inflection. “And charming. Get it? Ha ha.”

Leliana laughed. “Well, it’s not inaccurate.”

“I’m not in a fairy tale,” Alistair grumbled.

“Of course you are!” Leliana said with that wicked grin of hers. “Just like all those great stories of lost kings returning to reign in glory.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed, and Cullen assumed this was an old joke of theirs. “And since I’m neither lost, nor a king, and am about as far from glorious as a man can get, you know exactly where you can stick that —”

But Leliana cut him off when she swept him into an embrace and kissed him on both cheeks. “It’s wonderful to see you, old friend.”

Alistair seemed to relax, returning the hug and smiling fondly, although his cheeks pinked at the kisses, much to Cullen’s surprise, considering their decade-long friendship. Not that it wasn’t adorable to see Alistair flustered by Leliana, or hilarious to see her make someone that wasn’t him uncomfortable.

 “After everything we’ve heard,” said Leliana, “I thank the Maker you are safe.”

Alistair snorted. “I’m not sure how hearing a probably fake but possibly real Calling and being on the run from the order I’ve helped rebuild over the past decade counts as ‘safe,’ but I appreciate your optimism.”

Leliana responded by tightening her embrace for a moment before she released him. “We will discover and stop whatever is causing the Wardens’ disturbing behavior. You have my word as a member of the Inquisition, the Left Hand of the Divine, and your friend.”

“Well, I dare Corypheus to oppose _that_ ,” said Alistair.

“I’d rather not push our luck,” said the Inquisitor. “We need every bit of it we can get.” She turned to Josephine and Cullen. “I apologize for rushing us into a meeting without proper introductions, but considering the information he had, I didn’t want to delay. Alistair, this is Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador.”

Josephine bowed as she would have to a visiting Orlesian noble. “I am pleased to meet you in person, Warden. I have heard much of your exploits from Leliana as well as numerous books. Your service in the Fifth Blight —”

Alistair’s smile evaporated as he held up a hand. “Pales in comparison to the amazing woman who actually defeated the archdemon. She deserves the compliments and praise far more than me.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he shot a quick glance at Leliana before returning to Josephine. “I hope you can understand my desire for that painful part of my past to remain in the past.”

From the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Leliana’s lips thin to a line in what he knew to be disapproval and, perhaps, a hint of worry. He shared her concern; few things were too serious for Alistair to joke about.

“Of course.” Josephine, ever the diplomat, responded as though Alistair had asked her for a glass of water and not to refrain from referencing his role in Thedas’s history. “If you like, I can make sure others around Skyhold do so as well.”

“You can?” Alistair blinked. “Uh, sure. It’d be nice not to have to answer a million questions about the Blight for once.”

“We’ll make sure no one bothers you about it, Alistair,” Leliana added, a hard glint in her eye which meant she’d be levying threats.

“And when the two of them work together,” the Inquisitor said, “all of Skyhold can learn a piece of news within a few hours. Now, I should introduce you to Commander —”

“Cullen,” Alistair said, grin back in its usual place. “What in the Maker’s name is that animal sitting on your shoulders? And please tell me you slaughtered it with your bare hands.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Unlike you.” Alistair crossed his arms and looked Cullen up and down. “I never thought I’d see the day when Cullen Rutherford would leave the Order.”

“That makes two of us. But things changed.”

“I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” the Inquisitor said, looking back and forth between them.

“We were trained together by the Ferelden Templars,” Cullen said, crossing his own arms.

“I was a year ahead of him.”

“And about five years behind in maturity.”

Alistair grinned. “And more than double that in sanctimonious dickishness.”

Cullen laughed in spite of himself. “I’ll give you that. I was rather intolerable.”

“Was?” Alistair raised an eyebrow.

Cullen’s smile faded, and he sighed. “I certainly hope so, although I admit I may not be the best judge of that.”

For the second time in the conversation, Alistair sobered. “You should know that for all of Hawke’s talk, she has nothing but respect for you. She told me how you stood with her against —”

“I hope you can understand my desire for the past to remain in the past.” Cullen echoed Alistair’s own words in the tone he used for giving orders. He often — more often than he liked to admit, even to himself — wished he could forget his own part in Kirkwall’s rebellion. In fact, when he looked back on his time in the Order, very little of it consisted of actions he was proud of.

“Fair enough.” Alistair nodded. “Madam Josephine, unlike Hawke, I’d prefer to bathe and change and then eat before I begin drinking. I imagine you all would prefer I do so as well.” His smile was grim. “It’s been a while since I’ve spent more than a few minutes in any sort of man-made structure, and it’s becoming rather noticeable.”

“I’ll walk you,” Leliana said, taking his arm. “And then we’ll dine and drink and catch up.”

“Only if you can convince him to join us.” Alistair nodded in Cullen’s direction.

Cullen straightened, rising to his full height. “I have work to do,” he said coolly.

“That’s what he always says.” Alistair grinned at the others. “But I’m sure one of you brilliant women of the Inquisition can convince him otherwise.”

The three aforementioned women all turned to him with identical looks that he knew too well.

He wouldn’t be getting any work done this evening.

.

.

.

“Cullen!”

At the sound of a familiar voice across the main hall, Cullen turned.

Alistair came running toward him.

They’d only just left the war table debrief of the events in the Western Approach, where the Inquisitor had ordered a march on Adamant. Cullen’s mind whirred with lists of preparations to be made. Even his lists had lists. He barely had time to think, much less stop moving, though once Alistair caught up with him, he asked, “Did you need something?”

“No,” Alistair said. “Well, yes. Well, sort of. I mean, it’s not a big deal, so if you’re busy —”

Cullen sighed. “I have an army to prepare for battle, Alistair. Busy is an understatement.”

“Of course.” Alistair’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, almost shy. “Never mind.”

That made Cullen stop in his tracks. During the meeting, Alistair had tried to hide his obvious uneasiness at the discovery of the Wardens’ horrifying blood magic plan, but Cullen knew Alistair was hurt and angry at the betrayal and worried for the future of the Wardens. He could sympathize.

He tipped his head in the direction of his office. “I can spare a moment for you right now.”

The grin that bloomed on Alistair’s face loosened a tightness in Cullen’s chest that he hadn’t even known was there, and he smiled as Alistair followed him through Solas’s rotunda to the bridge and into Cullen’s tower.

Once inside, Cullen closed and barred all three doors into his office — a luxury he could never afford (certainly not now) and rarely allowed himself. While Alistair settled in a chair, Cullen pulled a bottle and two glasses from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured them each a generous portion.

Alistair cocked an eyebrow. “That bottle looks about as full as it did when I left. Can I assume that means you haven’t taken a night off since then without me to drag you away from work?”

Cullen chuckled as he raised his glass toward Alistair, who did the same. “That would be a safe assumption, yes.”

The truth was that since Alistair had come to Skyhold, Cullen had dined with him and sometimes others most evenings, joking and catching up. And every evening, even the ones when Alistair was unable to join him for dinner, the two of them would return to Cullen’s office for drinks and conversation, sometimes late into the night. That had stopped when Alistair had left for the Western Approach about a month ago, and Cullen had been surprised to find that he missed their evenings together. It had been far too long since he’d had a true friend, much less someone who had not only known him from the time before Kinloch Hold, but had also experienced the same type of trauma and loss.

So, in spite of the urgent necessity to begin planning a full-scale march, Cullen took a break in the middle of the day to make up some of that lost time with his friend.

Alistair shook his head before taking a large gulp. “I swear, you need some sort of nursemaid to tell you, ‘No, Cullen. No more work. Go outside and play now.’”

Cullen smiled. “That’s why I have you, isn’t it?”

Alistair froze for an instant before downing the rest of his glass.

“Are you all right?” Cullen frowned. “I’m sorry about what you learned in the Approach. I know what it’s like to watch an order to which you devoted years of your life devolve into something it was never intended to be.”

Alistair chuckled, a little nervously, Cullen thought. “That’s quite the exclusive club we belong to.”

“There may be more of us than you think, but you aren’t wrong.”

Alistair slumped and placed his glass on the table. “The difference between being a Templar and being a Warden, though, is that you can stop being a Templar. But once a Warden, always a Warden, whether you want to be or not.”

Cullen’s heart sank. During one of their many late-night conversations, Alistair had explained to him about the Calling. Although the one he and most of the Orlesian Wardens were hearing now was almost certainly brought on by Corypheus, a Warden’s real Calling occurred when the Taint — the thing that made a Warden a Warden and that killed most normal people within a few weeks — finally caught up with their body. Traditionally, when a Warden began to have horrible nightmares of darkspawn and felt their body begin to deteriorate, they would say their goodbyes, settle their affairs, and head to the Deep Roads to go down fighting, with the goal of taking down as many darkspawn as possible before they died. The Calling came to a Warden thirty years after their Joining _at most_ , and that time only decreased the more a Warden was exposed to darkspawn. Since Alistair’s Joining had been over ten years ago and he’d fought during a Blight, including against an archdemon, Alistair likely had considerably less than twenty years left before his own Calling.

And to have the order to which he’d devoted the rest of his shortened life betray him like this?

To Cullen’s immense surprise, he was struck with the sudden urge to embrace Alistair. He was not normally a physically affectionate person, even among his friends — he’d experienced far too much torture to find casual touch comfortable — but he’d make an exception for Alistair without a second thought.

He rose and walked around his desk to do so, but Alistair was too absorbed in his own babbling to notice.

“Not that I’m suggesting that giving up lyrium is easy,” he was saying. “I know how hard it is, I’ve seen you struggle with it, Maker knows it could kill you. I didn’t mean to imply that —”

Had Alistair thought he’d offended Cullen? The idea was laughable — well, no, it wasn’t. Alistair offended a lot of people. But Cullen knew him better than that.

He leaned against his desk and placed a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. Alistair jumped, apparently unaware Cullen had moved at all.

“Alistair.” Cullen smiled. “Calm down. I didn’t think you were suggesting anything.”

Alistair nodded and looked away. Cullen wondered if he, too, was remembering the night he’d come to this office for a nightcap only to find Cullen in a shivering, weeping puddle on the floor of his loft, begging for it all to end, either by a vial of lyrium or a swift death. That was the first time he hadn’t been alone during an episode, and although he’d initially been mortified, he would always be grateful that Alistair hadn’t judged him and refused to leave, even sleeping on the floor until the next morning to ensure he was okay. Since that night, Cullen had found it easier to talk to Alistair about — well, anything.

“There is a difference,” he said gently. “Lyrium withdrawal hasn’t killed me yet, and I don’t intend to let it. You don’t have that choice.”

Alistair looked up at him, some inscrutable emotion in his eyes so intense that Cullen dropped his own gaze with a small cough.

“Thank you,” Alistair whispered. Then he cleared his throat and spoke at his normal volume. “Anyway, er, that’s sort of why I wanted to talk to you.”

He pulled something small from his pocket and began to fidget with it, though Cullen couldn’t tell what it was.

After several seconds of that, Alistair finally opened his hand to reveal a freshly picked, deep red rose; not quite a bud, but not fully bloomed, either. It looked like how Cullen, not a flower expert by any means, always imagined roses _should_ look — petals unfolded just enough that they curled outward, but not so much that they seemed in danger of wilting or falling. A green stem of a few inches extended from the bottom of the bud.

It was beautiful.

“Do you know what this is?” Alistair asked.

Cullen cocked an eyebrow, suddenly unsure. “Is it not a rose?”

Alistair laughed, but there was an unusual edge to it. “No, it is! That was a bit of a stupid question, wasn’t it? It is most definitely a rose. Nothing can get past you, Commander.” Then the humor faded, and his voice grew suddenly quiet. “I found it while I was away. Deep in the Frostbacks, a bright red spot against the white snow and brown brush. I thought it had be special to have survived and bloomed in such harsh conditions. Strong and resilient. Maybe a little dumb.” A small smile ghosted his lips. “But really … brave. I probably should have left it, but I couldn’t let it get zapped by the cold or eaten by some animal. So I’ve had it with me ever since.”

Cullen, still unsure where this was going, deflected his uncertainty with a practical question. “How were you able to keep it like this?”

Alistair waggled his eyebrows. “Magic.” At Cullen’s disbelieving look, he laughed. “No, really. Dorian put some sort of preservation spell on it? I was prepared to keep it until it wilted and dried, but he offered, and I wasn’t about to turn him down.”

“I see.” Cullen didn’t understand the point of the story or why Alistair was putting so much thought into a simple flower, and something about this whole thing made him uncomfortable. But he had to admit, “It’s lovely.”

“It is.” Alistair spoke to the rose, head bowed.

The silence that followed was likely only a few seconds, but there was a tension in the air that put Cullen’s nerves on edge. What was happening right now?

Alistair finally cleared his throat and met Cullen’s gaze, his cheeks reddened almost to the color the rose. “Anyway, it reminded me of you, and I thought you might like to have it.”

Cullen’s heart suddenly sped up, though he couldn’t imagine why. “Oh. That’s quite ...” His voice shook, too. Why in the Maker’s name was that?

Alistair seemed not to have heard him, since he was babbling again. “— because you’ve been through so much, at Kinloch Hold and then in Kirkwall, and either one of those would have broken most people, but you came out of them both intact and made a choice most Templars would never dream of, mostly because they’re not so stubborn or stupidly moral. And you’re acting honorably and competently as the commander of the Inquisition when you should be dead or crazy from everything you’ve seen or a Maker-damned addict living on the streets, and I just thought you should … know … that.”

Alistair’s voice faded as he finished and looked up to see Cullen staring — or, more likely, gaping — at him, stunned into silence by his words.

He stood suddenly, apparently horrified, and closed his fist around the bloom. “Never mind. This was — forget it, I shouldn’t have come here.”

He spun on his heel and was halfway to the center door when Cullen managed to make his feet move. “Alistair, wait!”

Alistair turned back just as Cullen grabbed his arm, causing them to fall against each other. They froze like that for an eternity, Cullen’s hand on Alistair’s upper arm, Alistair’s other hand pressed against Cullen’s chest, far, _far_ too close than was comfortable or socially acceptable.

So why did Cullen’s heart rate race to double-time, his breaths come faster yet more irregular, his skin tingle where Alistair touched him, his stomach twist and turn like a trebuchet’s gears?

Time and reality rushed back in for them both simultaneously, and they each took a step back, removing their hands from each other.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat, aware he was likely the same shade of red as Alistair and his rose.

“I meant to say — that is —” Ugh. _Use your words, Rutherford._ “I’m not sure what to say.”

While Cullen rambled, Alistair had schooled his face into something approaching neutral. “That’s fine,” he said lightly, though Cullen could tell he was anything but. “I’ll just get back to —”

“No!” Cullen snapped, and Alistair’s eyes widened. “I mean — I’m not very good at this. Talking about … personal things. But … thank you. I am flattered, _honored_ , that you think so highly of me. And I would —” He held out his hand toward Alistair’s still-clenched fist. “That is, if you still want to — I would like to accept your … gift.”

Alistair’s eyes widened slowly in surprise before his giddy grin transformed his face into something so lovely it stole Cullen’s breath away. Cullen finally understood why people most often described Alistair as handsome. His smile was so earnest and genuine that Cullen thought he might do absolutely anything Alistair asked if he smiled at him like that. And the look in his eyes — Cullen wasn’t sure anyone had ever looked at him like that before, but his heart leapt inside his chest, which seemed to swell until he felt ready to take on Corypheus himself single-handedly.

It was a moment before he realized he was grinning, too, and that Alistair had already placed the still-perfect rose in his hand.

“It’s lovely.” _Like you_ , he barely stopped himself from saying — wait, _what_? He swallowed. “Thank you.” When Alistair’s smile showed no signs of waning, he somehow forced himself to point vaguely behind him and said, “I should get back to …”

“Yes!” Alistair said, straightening, and that smile receded into his normal, non-mesmerizing smirk. “Lots of work, very busy, et cetera. Maybe … I’ll stop by later?” Only his last sentence veered from his standard Alistair snark, lightened as it was with earnestness and a dash of what sounded like hope.

Cullen nodded. “I’d like that. Perhaps we can finish our drink then.”

Alistair grinned one last time and headed out the door, leaving Cullen blinking in his dazzling wake.

With a smile, Cullen turned back to his desk. He finished off his glass in one gulp to soothe his now-frayed nerves before refilling it with water; he made sure the rose stood straight before sliding the glass to the edge of his desk, front and center where everyone could see.

Every time he looked up from a boring report and saw it, he grinned reflexively.

Even Dorian spending almost an hour in his office making not so subtle remarks about secret admirers and “blooming” love didn’t bother him much. Although his mind did swirl with questions and concerns while he pondered the nature of his and Alistair’s relationship — and his own feelings on the matter.

.

.

.

“Alistair, wait!”

The Grey Warden, sword and shield drawn and ready, turned back as Cullen rushed to meet him at the entrance to Adamant Fortress.

“Now really isn’t the time for a friendly chat, Cullen!” said Alistair. “You just ordered your troops forward!”

“I know.” Cullen’s heart was racing, but he knew it had nothing to do with the sounds of battle already beginning inside the walls. “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

Alistair laughed. “Will you?”

“I’ll do whatever is necessary to ensure you and the Inquisitor succeed.”

“So will I.” Alistair bared his teeth in a fierce, defiant grin.

“I thought you might say that. So I have something for you.” Cullen offered Alistair the item in his open palm.

“Is that your —? No, I can’t!”

“Take it,” Cullen said, pulling Alistair’s shield forward and slapping the coin into his now open hand. “Branson told me it was lucky. You need it more than me today.”

Alistair clenched Cullen’s lucky coin in his fist and looked at him with that intense, overwhelming gaze that Cullen saw more and more often these days. Alistair opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could, Cullen grasped him by the sword forearm and (carefully, avoiding the sword) pulled him into a hug.

“Go save the Wardens again and come back alive.”

When he pulled away, Alistair was smiling _that_ smile and said, “For you? Anything.”

Then he turned and ran into the fortress, leaving Cullen behind to smile like a fool until he remembered where he was. Drawing his own sword, he shouted orders to his men and began to desperately pray for Alistair’s safe return.

The next time Cullen saw him, their eyes met for an instant before the stone beneath Alistair gave way and he tumbled over the edge. A bright green flash, and when everything had settled, neither the Inquisitor, her team, Hawke, or Alistair could be found.

.

.

.

 _“They travel through the Fade in their physical forms,”_ Solas had said.

How was that even possible?

 _“A powerful spirit guides them,”_ he’d said some time later. _“But an equally powerful demon hunts them.”_

Well, at least they balanced each other out. Cullen heard the remark in Alistair’s voice, and the gaping maw in his chest threatened to devour him.

He clenched the edge of the battlement and bowed his head, eyes shut tight to keep anxious tears from escaping. His attempts at meditation or prayer or both had all failed, leaving him with enough nervous energy he was surprised he hadn’t tread paths in the stone with his erratic wanderings.

“You should eat something.” The voice right behind him was soft, but he nearly jumped out of his skin. That, if nothing else, told him just how tense and distracted he was.

“I doubt the Fade is allowing them such luxuries.”

Leliana sighed. “I’m sure they’ll be grateful when they burst from a rift, demons on their tail, and their Commander is too weak from hunger to draw his sword and assist.”

Cullen rolled his eyes but couldn’t deny her point. He snatched bread from the plate she held and glared at her defiantly while he chewed.

She met his glare with a raised eyebrow, her mouth curving upward for the first time since this all began. Then she turned her gaze outward, beyond the immense loss of life and heavy damage to the fortress, and stared at the horizon. “She’s strong and resourceful. She’s accompanied by a Seeker, a Tevinter necromancer, a story-telling dwarf, a crossbow named Bianca, the Champion of Kirkwall, and one of the Wardens who defeated the Fifth Blight. And they have a powerful spirit on their side. I have faith in them.”

Her implication irked Cullen. “So do I,” he said pointedly. “It’s the rest of the place I don’t trust, especially that ‘equally powerful demon.’”

“Usually in times like this you throw yourself into work. There’s plenty to be done, so why don’t you?” Her penetrating eyes watched him. “Why is this time different?”

It was the question he’d been asking himself since they’d disappeared. He’d tried his usual methods of distraction, but after they’d quickly dispatched or incapacitated the rest of the Wardens, he’d spent barely five minutes barking orders to the Chargers and his own troops about recovery efforts before he lost focus. Bull, of all people, had snapped him out of it.

“We got this, Cullen,” he’d said, the heavy weight of his hand on Cullen’s shoulder oddly comforting. “Take a break and trust in the Boss.”

Guilt flared again now, as it had at Bull’s words. Because he _did_ trust the Inquisitor. He trusted her with the Inquisition and the lives of his men and even his own.

He just didn’t trust her with Alistair’s.

That was what it came down to. Most people probably thought his overwhelming worry was for the Inquisitor; he knew the rumors that circulated about them, instigated by too many late nights working and certainly not discouraged by her and Josephine’s discretion in their budding relationship. The two of them and Leliana often teased him at the war table about the rumors, and the worst part was that he couldn’t even deny interest in her; he’d been enamoured at first and had even attempted, in his own bumbling way, to flirt with her until she and Josephine had grown more open with their displays of affection. He secretly believed the change had been for his benefit and that the teasing was their (albeit backwards) way of attempting to ease any potential embarrassment on his end.

But the guilt-inducing truth was that he hadn’t worried about her or any of the rest of them — only Alistair’s fall into the abyss had shattered his heart, leaving in his chest a deep, empty abyss of his very own.

Leliana placed a gentle hand on his arm. “He’s been through far worse, you know.”

Cullen couldn’t even muster a sigh of annoyance. Of course she knew. She knew everything. And between her and Dorian, the entirety of the Inner Circle likely knew as well. (And had probably placed bets on the outcome, Maker help him.) He was honestly surprised there had been no rumors circulating around Skyhold about _them_ , considering how often Alistair left his office late in the evening after their now-regular nightcaps. He could only assume that two men, known to be old friends, talking and drinking until after midnight was considered the far more likely scenario than its scandalous cousins.

Not that the more socially acceptable rumors were untrue — his and Alistair’s relationship had thus far remained a close friendship, in spite of the rose and a few tense moments here and there. In fact, until the battlement had collapsed, even Cullen had believed he and Alistair more akin to brothers than anything else. He’d given Alistair his lucky coin, which had been given to him by his actual brother, without a second thought. Luck was luck, and he knew his own family prayed for his safety. His worries for Alistair were no different.

Except that they were. He understood that now. The empty, painful cavern where his heart should have been told him only too well. He’d certainly felt romantic feelings before — although never for a man, which had been the only other path of his thoughts since Alistair’s disappearance — but never had he been so debilitated with anxiety for the safety of any one person before now.

“I watched him help take down an archdemon,” Leliana continued. “His warmth and humor belie the warrior within. He’s fought darkspawn, demons, dragons, and I think this will be his third time in the Fade. Believe in him, if you believe in nothing else.”

And he did. Oh, but he did. He believed in Alistair even more than Alistair believed in himself. That wasn’t what made him so sick with worry.

What made him so sick he had actually vomited twice — and feared he might again, with the addition of the bread Leliana had so kindly brought him — What was eating him up inside was the thought that right now, Alistair was in the Fade facing Maker knew what horrors, fighting for his life, probably terrified … and he didn’t know how Cullen felt.

So much had been left unsaid between them. Cullen longed to know how Alistair interpreted those long, tense moments and the lingering touches. Did his heart flutter at Cullen’s smile, his skin tingle at his touch? Did he miss Cullen whenever they were apart and rejoice when they were reunited? What had he intended when he’d given Cullen the rose? Was it a simple gesture of respect, or something far more meaningful?

Did the idea of losing Cullen bring Alistair — Hero of the Fifth Blight, Grey Warden, son of King Maric — to his knees in despair?

Did he feel the way Cullen felt?

Did he … _love_ Cullen?

What ached so much was the thought that if Alistair — if Alistair didn’t —

That Alistair might never know.

“Maker, Leliana, what if he doesn’t —” But Cullen couldn’t even finish the horrible thought, much less the sentence.

“Then you will grieve.” Leliana’s voice thickened. “And you will question the Maker’s plan and your choices and his choices and wonder if it was somehow your fault.” She sniffed, and when Cullen looked at her, she was wiping tears from her cheek. But then her eyes hardened, and she stood straighter than before. “And eventually you will find purpose again and learn to remember the good memories and honor his sacrifice by not questioning the outcome of his decisions, no matter how much you miss her.” She cleared her throat. “Him.”

Cullen saw in her his own future, and he wrapped an arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder and one of her hands on his.

“Does the pain ever fade?” he asked.

Ten years later and Leliana still cried for her? He hadn’t been aware until this moment just how much she had loved the Hero of Ferelden.

“No.” She shook her head, tears streaking down her cheeks. “And I would not wish it to. But it has become easier to bear.” And with that, she buried her face in his mantle, drying her tears, gave his hand a final squeeze, and pulled away.

“But this is Alistair,” she said, voice steady once again. “He has survived worse and would tell you so with a pun that isn’t at all funny but makes you laugh anyway because his grin is so infectious.” She smiled, demonstrating her point, before her mouth hardened into more of a defiant smirk. “He _will_ return. They all will. Or the Maker and I will have words. Now finish eating.”

As she spun away, her cloak fluttering in her wake, Cullen reached for his plate and did as she demanded. He certainly wasn’t going to defy her.

And if the Maker was smart, He wouldn’t, either.

.

.

.

Cullen heard commotion in the courtyard — Bull shouting orders to the Chargers, his men calling for backup, swords being drawn, spells being cast.

And the telltale sound of a hole being punched into the Fade.

He sprinted across the battlements, through covered halls, down flights of steps. He drew his sword and readied his shield, prepared to fight for Alistair’s life, no matter the foe.

As he ran across the courtyard, he cut down one, two, five, half a dozen demons before skidding to a stop in the green light of the rift …

Just in time to see Alistair emerge, shoved out and to the ground, followed by the Inquisitor, who landed on her hands and knees next to him and spun on her ass to close the portal.

Cullen had never seen her actually close one before, aside from the Breach itself; verdant lightning shot from her mark to the rift, brightening with a rising cacophony until it exploded in a shower of green sparks.

When he’d blinked the after-burn from his vision, he raced toward Alistair, who, like the others the rift had expelled, was filthy, bloodied … and _alive_.

But Alistair had abandoned his sword and shield and launched himself at the Inquisitor.

“Why did you choose her?” His voice sounded off, empty of his usual humor, thick with something Cullen couldn’t identify. He shook the Inquisitor by the shoulders. “I should have been the one who stayed!”

And that was when Cullen realized — they’d all returned, covered in ichor and the worse for wear, but alive.

All except one.

“Because she was right, Alistair. Someone needs to rebuild the Wardens.” The Inquisitor reached out to place a hand on Alistair’s shoulder.

But he jerked away from her as though he’d been burned. “I already did that once, and it didn’t take,” he snarled. “You should have chosen somebody else.”

With that, he scrambled to his feet and stalked away, kicking his shield — _Duncan’s_ shield — and his starmetal sword from the Hero of Ferelden almost petulantly, hands clenched at his sides in an emotion Cullen knew all too well.

Helpless rage.

Cullen rushed toward him, still grasping his own sword and shield, but froze when Alistair met his gaze. Filled with too many emotions to grasp, one of which looked disturbingly like disgust, Alistair’s normally twinkling eyes were dull, as if some vital part of him had died in the Fade. He turned his head and veered away, his message clear.

_Don’t._

Cullen let his arms fall to his side, sword and shield held loosely in defeat, and watched the man he loved — and yes, it was love that had debilitated him during that long, painful vigil — slowly slip from his grasp.

He recovered enough to hear the tearful end of the Inquisitor’s story.

“We couldn’t defeat it, so Hawke stayed behind. She gave us time to escape.”

Cullen bowed his head.

Oh, Alistair.

.

.

.

Cullen stormed onto the bridge that led to his tower, slamming the door open so hard that it bounced against the stone wall and closed again with a bang.

The first war table meeting back at Skyhold had not gone well.

“Where’s Alistair?” the Inquisitor had asked, brow furrowed.

“Moping, probably,” Varric grumbled. “Barely anyone’s seen him since we got back.”

“I should hardly call grief and guilt ‘moping,’ my dear.” Vivienne, who had never cared for Alistair, regarded Varric with immense distaste. “Adamant was quite the ordeal for him.”

“Well, Charming needs to suck it up.” Varric’s uncharacteristic tone could have given an ice dragon frostbite.

“That’s not fair,” said Cassandra softly, also uncharacteristic.

“He’s not the only one who cared about Hawke,” Varric spat. Then his lips curled into a nasty smile. “Maybe Curly should sit him down and give him a talking-to.”

Cullen snapped, slapping his open hand onto the table. Everyone jumped. “Alistair has lost more friends in the past decade than most of us make in a lifetime. And unless you’ve watched someone you care about die in your place, _dwarf_ , I suggest you shut your blathering trap.”

“Twice.” Leliana’s whisper shattered the silence. Eyes squeezed shut, she added, “Hawke wasn’t the first to die in his stead.”

Cullen’s heart, extra tender these days, clenched in sympathy. In his life he’d sent men to their deaths and watched friends tortured to death by demons and blood mages, but never had someone taken a fatal blow for him. Much less two someones.

“Perhaps we should reconvene tomorrow.” As always, Josephine’s smooth diplomacy cut through the tension like butter, although perhaps for the first time with the members of the Inner Circle.

“I agree.” The Inquisitor, too, had been deeply affected by Adamant, and seemed relieved to have an excuse to postpone discussion. “Tomorrow, same time.”

Varric was the first to the door, but he paused and looked toward Cullen as though about to speak. Cullen nodded, and Varric returned it.

An apology for harsh words and an acceptance.

Then Varric left, a slumping shuffle replacing his usual strut. Cullen was not without sympathy; Varric had every right to mourn his friend. But attacking Alistair was over the line, and Cullen would not apologize for defending him.

What made Cullen’s insides twist in guilt, though, was the reason he couldn’t bring himself to offer his condolences to Varric — he wasn’t actually sorry that Hawke was dead.

Oh, he’d never hated her, contrary to popular (i.e. Varric’s) belief. Yes, she’d made his life in Kirkwall … difficult (an understatement if there ever was one), but that was hardly a capital offense. For Maker’s sake, he’d risked his … well, everything to save her from Meredith because she hadn’t deserved death. He highly respected her, in fact, even more so after she’d risked _her_ everything to help Alistair and stop Corypheus.

And yet, horribly selfish as he was, he felt only relief at her death for the simple fact that it wasn’t Alistair’s.

In time, he imagined that relief would evolve into gratitude, but he was disgusted with himself that he couldn’t even muster that right now.

When everyone but the Inquisitor and her advisers had left, the Inquisitor placed both hands on the table and bowed her head. “I would have stayed, but I had to close the rift on the other side. Did I make the right choice?”

Josephine embraced her and kissed her temple. “It was an impossible choice, love.”

“In these situations,” Leliana said, “there is no right choice. Only the one you made.”

Cullen moved to the door.

“Cullen?”

Insides churning with nauseating guilt, he stopped but did not turn around. “I apologize, Inquisitor.” His voice, as everyone’s seemed to be today, was uncharacteristic of him. Shaky. Wrung out. “I cannot give you an unbiased opinion.”

“Does he hate me?” the Inquisitor asked plaintively.

Cullen sighed, and not for the first time, felt as though the weight of Thedas rested on his shoulders.

“I don’t know.” The sharp intake of breath behind him pushed him to finish his answer. “I have not seen him since you all returned from the Fade.”

The silence was deafening. As if he didn’t know Alistair’s week-long avoidance was a problem.

He opened the door, but turned back to the three most powerful women of the Inquisition.

“But if I had to guess, I’d wager he hates only one person. Himself.”

Now, his rage at the situation and worry for Alistair propelled him toward his office, where he planned to bury himself in work in an attempt to avoid thinking on his internal emotional turmoil.

He doubted the attempt would succeed, but he planned to try.

All three doors of his office, of course, were propped wide open, allowing him to see the inside before he entered.

And there, hunched over his desk, stood Alistair.

.

.

.

Heart pounding, Cullen took a deep, less-than-calming breath, and stepped into his office.

Alistair, apparently unaware of his presence, glared at the rose that, even in the days since his return from Adamant, always made Cullen smile and filled him with a cautious, if melancholy, hope.

Then, without warning, Alistair swiped his arm with a snarl, launching the glass, the water within, and the rose halfway across the room and onto the floor.

“Excuse me.” Alistair started and spun at Cullen’s stern tone. “That rose was a gift from someone I care about deeply, and I’d rather you didn’t damage it in a fit of pique.”

Without otherwise making conversation or eye contact, Cullen closed and barred the doors — why did he have so many, again? — and then turned to the floor. Ignoring the mess, he gathered up the rose and, cradling it like a babe, gently laid it on his desk.

Alistair watched him, head mostly bowed and shoulders slumped, the very picture of defeat. “Why do you still have it?”

Cullen frowned. “Because I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because you gave it to me.”

Alistair winced as though Cullen’s words had slapped him, which in turn made Cullen’s heart ache.

“Here’s something else I’m giving you.” Alistair tossed something onto the desk.

Cullen’s lucky coin.

“You were wrong,” Alistair said. “It’s not lucky. Not for me, at least.” He moved to leave.

Cullen nearly overturned the desk in his rush to get around it. “You’re alive. You survived.”

Alistair spun around. “That’s the problem! You should have kept it, or maybe given it to Hawke. If it is lucky, then it’s luck I didn’t deserve.” Once again, he turned to leave.

Cullen grabbed him by the arm, as he had the day Alistair had given him the rose. “Please, Alistair, don’t do this. Talk to me!”

This time, when Alistair turned around, tears streaked down his cheeks. “It should have been me, Cullen, just like with the archdemon. Why do they keep pushing me out of the way and leaving me behind to pick up the pieces?”

He buried his face in Cullen’s neck and began to sob, and Cullen finally did what he’d ached to do since Alistair had been shoved out of the rift.

He wrapped him in his arms, cradling his head, and thanked the Maker over and over for his safe return.

And when Alistair’s legs gave out, they sank to the floor together, Alistair gripping Cullen’s mantle for support, Cullen pressing his face and yes, his lips, into Alistair’s hair, rocking him and whispering sweet assurances.

_You’re alive._

_You’re safe._

_Thank the Maker you’re all right._

_I thought I’d lost you._

And then, too softly to be heard over Alistair’s sobs.

_I love you._

Alistair gasped, hiccuped, and then sucked in a hiccuping gasp. Still clenching his fists in Cullen’s mantle, he pulled back enough to meet Cullen’s gaze with that too intense one that always made Cullen squirm.

“What?”

Shit. Maybe Cullen hadn’t said it that softly after all. “I, um …” His heart pounded once again in his chest, thumping out the same refrain with every beat.

_Iloveyou. Iloveyou. Iloveyou. Iloveyou._

Alistair’s breaths came in shuddering spurts now, his torso still spasming from the sobs.

“What — did you say? — I thought I heard —” As if suddenly realizing what he was doing, he released Cullen’s mantle and pulled away, rubbing a hand over his face and through his hair. “I’m sorry, I —” He grimaced. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should go.”

He moved to stand, but Cullen found that, now that Alistair was in his arms, he couldn’t let go.

Alistair summoned a strained smile, but it looked almost grotesque compared to the real one Cullen loved so much.

“Lots of work, very busy, et cetera.” Even worse than his smile, Alistair’s attempt at a laugh came out bitter. “You have better things to do than deal with a broken bastard of a shitty friend who will only fail you like he failed everyone else. I thought that maybe — but no.”

Cullen shook his head. “No,” he whispered. How could Alistair think such horrible things about himself?

At that, the twinkle in Alistair’s eyes died. His shoulders dropped in defeat, and he turned away with a cough. “Right. I’m sorry for … I’ll leave.”

“What?” Cullen asked. Did Alistair actually think that he didn’t feel the same?

No, that wasn’t fair. Cullen hadn’t thought he felt the same until he watched Alistair fall into the abyss and waited for hours, helpless to do anything to save him.

He’d almost missed his chance once. He’d be damned if he’d miss it again.

“Alistair.”

But Alistair shook his head and tried to push away.

So Cullen took his chin and gently turned his face until their eyes met. “You heard me right. I — I love you.”

And before Alistair could respond with some smart-ass remark, Cullen ran his fingers through Alistair’s hair and pressed their lips together.

Their first kiss was soft and sweet and made Cullen’s stomach do all sorts of complicated flips. When it ended and he finally opened his eyes, he was blinded by the brightness of his favorite Alistair smile.

“This is where I usually wake up,” Alistair said. “Or have to face the archdemon in only my smallclothes.”

Cullen laughed. “Do those two things often occur in the same dream?”

“Eh, it’s about fifty-fifty.”

Cullen chuckled and shook his head. “You are —”

Alistair yanked him into a second kiss before he could finish.

This kiss consisted of everything Cullen loved about Alistair, all compressed to the point where their lips met — light-hearted but intensely passionate, a little shy, a bit unsure, and done, as Alistair did everything, with just the hint of a smile.

When it was over, Cullen found himself breathless.

“For the record,” Alistair breathed, short on air as well, “I love you, too.”

Cullen grinned, even as his cheeks burned. “You do?”

Alistair grinned back, fingers running through the hair on the back of Cullen’s head. “Since I saw that rose and thought of you and picked it in a stupid, romantic impulse.”

“It wasn’t stupid.” Cullen stroked his thumb across Alistair’s cheek. “I like —” No, no need to mince words. “I love it. It cheers me up every time I look at it.”

“But you didn’t really _get_ it.” Alistair rolled his eyes. “I am not a subtle man, Cullen.”

“Neither is Dorian.”

Alistair hid his face in Cullen’s mantle and groaned.

“I did get it. I just didn’t … know. Not until —”

Alistair looked up. “The coin?”

Cullen rested his forehead against Alistair’s and whispered, “When you fell. I thought you were —” He pulled Alistair closer, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent tears from escaping. Then he pressed his lips to Alistair’s forehead and said, “When I saw you jump out of the rift, I almost collapsed to my knees in relief.”

Alistair spoke into Cullen’s chest, grasping again at the mantle. “It should have been me. I should have died for the Wardens, just like I should have during the Blight. It’s not fair …”

“Shh.” Cullen began to rock again.

“I don’t deserve —”

“No.” Cullen took Alistair’s face in his hands and stared right into those pained, watery eyes that had lost their twinkle again. “Don’t do that. You deserve to live and be happy just as much as anyone.”

“But Hawke —”

“Made a choice.”

Alistair shoved Cullen away. “No, your precious _Inquisitor_ made a choice. We both offered to stay, and she chose to leave Hawke to die fighting that — that thing! Hawke helped me when no one else did. She didn’t deserve to die like that!”

“And you do?”

Alistair went quiet, then shrugged. “I already got my second chance,” he said dully. “I didn’t need a third.”

“Maybe not. But the Wardens did.” Cullen pulled Alistair close to his chest, clutching his head to his own heart. “So did I. And maybe … so did we.”

Alistair had no answer, for once, and they sat in silence, holding each other, for a long time.

.

.

.

“Uh, Cullen?” Alistair finally spoke, his voice muffled. “Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but your armor is kind of crushing my face.”

Cullen released him with an awkward chuckle. “Sorry, I —” He massaged the back of his neck, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Apology accepted,” Alistair said lightly, and there he was again, looking at him like _that_ , with _that_ smile, and Cullen felt like his chest might explode from joy and utter shock that Alistair would continue to look at him like that.

Because Alistair loved him.

Alistair _loved_ him.

But as quickly as it appeared, the smile evaporated, and Alistair looked away suddenly. “Does she hate me? For yelling at her like I did?”

Cullen huffed the softest laugh. “She asked me the same about you.”

“And?”

“I told her the same thing I’ll tell you. She only hates one person right now — herself.”

Alistair sighed, burying his face in his hands.

“Don’t.” Cullen pulled Alistair’s hands away. “I only told you because you should know it’s eating her up. She asked us if she made the right choice. Josephine told her it was an impossible one, and Leliana said there was no right one.”

“And what did you say?” Alistair whispered.

Cullen brought Alistair’s hands up and kissed his fingers gently. “I told her I couldn’t be unbiased.”

Alistair actually blushed, and it was so sweet Cullen couldn’t help but pull him in for another kiss.

“So they know, then?” Alistair cleared his throat, but his were still pinker than normal. “About …”

“I’m fairly sure everyone knows,” Cullen said with a chuckle. “Dorian, obviously, and Leliana spoke with me about you while we … waited for you to return. Between the two of them, I’m sure the whole Inner Circle knows by now.”

He remembered Varric’s remark about him giving Alistair a “talking-to,” but clenched his teeth and said nothing else. Alistair didn’t need to know what had been said at the meeting.

Alistair laid his head on Cullen’s shoulder and seemed to melt, his hands still grasping Cullen’s. “I should talk to her. Apologize. It was an impossible choice. And Varric — he was one of her closest friends, and he didn’t even get to —” His voice cracked. “I know you have to get back to work, but —” He turned his face into Cullen’s mantle once again. “Can we just sit here a little while longer?”

Cullen kissed his hair. “We can stay as long as you like. I can even take my armor off, if that would be more comfortable.”

Alistair looked up and gave a sly grin, his waggling eyebrows only slightly undercut by his rapidly re-reddening cheeks. “Why Commander, how forward of you. The rumors will be scandalous.”

Cullen laughed, pulling them both to their feet. “I have no doubt that will happen no matter what. Come on upstairs.”

Alistair jerked his hands away and took several steps back, suddenly unable or unwilling to meet Cullen’s gaze. His face was now as red as the rose on Cullen’s desk. “I, um — that’s not — I don’t know if we —”

Cullen reached for his hand, smiling. “Just to rest. I’ll take off my armor, but we’ll keep our clothes on. We can lay down and just …”

Feeling his own face heat, Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. Maker, why was he losing his confidence now?

He shrugged. “Sleep. Or — or talk, or —”

“Snuggle?”

Alistair’s voice was so shy, the look in his eyes so hopeful, that Cullen knew he was done for. How could he refuse when Alistair looked like _that_? Maker help him if Alistair learned he held such power.

“Yes,” Cullen said, smiling. “If you like.”

The sheer joy in Alistair’s grin set off a warning bell in Cullen’s head. Maker, what if Alistair already _knew_ he held such power?

Right now, though, he couldn’t make himself care. He led them up the ladder, where Alistair kindly helped him remove his armor, and they both lay down in the bed. Alistair’s head rested on Cullen’s chest, and both were wrapped in each other’s arms.

“I like this,” whispered Alistair. “It feels … right.”

Yes, it did. Cullen had never felt so …

“Safe,” Alistair murmured. “Like nothing else matters.”

Exactly.

“Nothing else does.” Cullen spoke into Alistair’s hair, brushing his fingers up and down Alistair’s back. “Not right now.”

And then he had a thought. A dumb, silly, _romantic_ thought that he would never dare speak aloud to anyone.

Varric’s nickname for Alistair was Prince Charming. Alistair hated it — particularly the prince part — and constantly insisted he was absolutely _not_ in a fairy tale. Sometimes he even added a few vulgarities.

But right now, holding his Alistair safe in his arms, in his bed, while grinning stupidly at the hole in his roof … Cullen wondered if he wasn’t in a fairy tale. Reality had never been this kind to him before. Alistair might refuse the title of Prince of Ferelden, but, in spite of everything they’d both been through, and no matter how much he protested, he was Cullen’s very own Prince Charming.

“Mmm.” Smiling slightly, Alistair snuggled further into Cullen’s chest. “Uhvoo.” He sighed the word and then began to snore softly.

But there was no mistaking what he’d said.

Heart filled to bursting with sheer happiness, Cullen smiled down at Alistair’s now peaceful form. Maybe one day he’d speak that ridiculous thought aloud. But for now, he kissed Alistair gently on the lips, and whispered, “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my friend LoreKeeper427 for reading and supporting this and then coming up with a baller title.
> 
> While this fic is technically stand-alone, I wrote it in conjunction with my other fic, [Of Love and Duty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16874424/chapters/39627660), which is itself a fic of Manchanification's [Thicker Than Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11168889/chapters/24930573). #shamelessplug  
> This is my idea of how Alistair and Cullen's relationship started.


End file.
